


When Thy Heart Began (did he smile his work to see?)

by RageSeptember



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, irresponsible use of mind palaces, oh sebastian..., post-tab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 12:57:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9324611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: A grief-stricken Sebastian learns that Sherlock can talk to Jim in his mind palace.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Right after TAB aired, I had this grand idea for a fic. Sadly, life happened, and this is what we ended up with. I really hoped to post it before season four aired and inevitably jossed it, but life continued to happen and... here we are.

”Did you see him?”

Poor light, yellow, lamp not natural, indoors, night. Judging by the lack of sensation in his hands he's been tied up for at least four hours; the last thing he remembers is waving down a cab outside of Reza's, and yes, it appears he has been drugged -

Sherlock's head twists to the side, cheek exploding with the backhand. ”Did you _see_ him?” the voice demands. ”What did he _say_?”

Man. Tall, blond, English, nearing forty. Army man, but not for quite some time.

Another backhand. ”Answer me, you fucking cunt.”

Furious. Desperate. Drunk – adjective and noun.

A proper blow this time, and the world fades.

*****

”Isn't he adorable? My very own Dr. Watson. Less of a dog, though, and more of a... **vicious** pet.”

John can be plenty vicious, as Sherlock well knows, but he keeps his tongue. It can be useful, this part of him that is Jim; better not anger it. (It is not real, it's all in his head, Moriarty's dead, he _knows_ this.) ”So. There was someone who loved you then.”

Jim's grin is a hideous thing, is a death mask. ”Apart from you, you mean?”

*****

Day slipping into night into day into dream. Moran, and the needles and the pills, and he'd be worried, really he would, but it's no worse than what he's done to himself before, and on the other side there's Jim, who is no more.

”Tell him,” Moran demands, eyes feverish, knucles white, and: ”What did he say?”

”Nothing ever burns down by itself,” Jim says. ”Every fire needs a little bit of help.”

Day into night into dream. Again, and again.

*****

”Jim would never say that.”

Sherlock would point out that he's not actually talking to the real Jim, but all that's gotten him in the past is the brunt edge of Moran's fury. Besides, probably not a good idea ot remind the man that Sherlock cannot actually give him what he craves.

”We all perceive people differently,” Sherlock notes instead, opting for the sort of diplomacy he'd never normally bother with. ”And I imagine we saw very different sides of him.”

Moran sneers, capping open another bottle. ”Jim likes to play games. Dress up, put on masks, all that shit. But the _real_ Jim would never say that.”

The instinct to be cruel, to strike back at his captor, overtakes wisdom: ”How would you know?”

*****

”It's not that I don't like you dropping by, darling, but you've been spending an awful lot of time inside your own head lately. Dangerou habit, that, for a man like you.”

” _Your_ man doesn't leave me much choice.”

Moriarty's eyes turns toward the window, and to something beyond it, far off. ”They're coming, Sherlock. Doctor Watson and Big Brother and the Inspector, they've all been out looking for you, so worried, it's sweet. They're coming now, the bloodhounds've picked up the trail, Tiger's gotten sloppy. Always happens with addicts eventually. Well, you'd know… ”

He turns back, fully facing Sherlock. Eyes as black as ever, but for a moment there's something else.   ”Take a message for him, would you?”

”A message.” He blinks. This is new.

”Yes, a message, Sherlock. From me to my loyal lieutenant. It's only polite. Tell him… ” A brief pause. ”Tell him to seize the fire.”

Sherlock frowns. ”I don't understand. That doesn't mean anything to me.”

”Well, no, but the message is not _for_ you, is it? You don't have to _understand_ it.”

”But - ”

”Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Moriarty makes that face he often does when John appears, either in person or as a topic of conversation. ”Time's up. Off you pop.” He begins to fade, as the entire world turns transluctent. ”Tell him, Sherlock.”

And then there is only John, calm – as always – in the face of disaster. Efficient but gentle hands unlocking the cuffs, helping him up. Sherlock staggers, not quite finding his balance; finding immediate support in John. ”Easy,” the doctor murmurs. ”You're all right now, Sherlock, we've got you.”

Sherlock's eyes flicker to the corner of the room where Moran is being held down by three men in black clothes. Assault team? At one time, it might not have been too much to bring them in against a foe such as Sebastian Moran, but grief and drink has done away with much of what made the man dangerous. He doesn't even appear to be struggling, eyes vacant as they briefly meet Sherlock's before the man is dragged from the room.

*****

He recovers quickly, because he always does. In the same way that he doesn't seem to crave as much sleep or nutrition as others, bodily harm affects him far less. He sleeps for a day, but then he is bored and up and running and in a week the dank room and ropes and smell of stale whiskey is but a distant memory, no longer important.

”No withdrawal symptoms then?” John asks when comes around to check on him on his way togri work. ”He did have you drugged up for the better part of two weeks.”

”I'm fine.” Sherlock would wave John's concern aside, but the memory of Moran's haunted face – unspeakable, wordless grief -  flashes before his eyes, and he turns to his friend. Offers him a smile; the expression might look forced, the emotion behind it is not. ”I really am, John.” He gestures towards the files on the table. ”Cases have been piling up. There's been a triple murder down in Doncaster that looks moderately interesting, if you wanted to come.”

”Now? Sherlock, you do know I have a job, right? A job that I actually need to go to. I can't just… run off.”

”That never used to bother you before.”

”No, but I didn't have a family to support then, did I?”

And Sherlock supposes that's a fair point, so he merely shrugs. ”We could go in the weekend. The corpses won't go anywhere.”

”No? Because that's never happened to us before, corpses disappearing or being fake or being someone else?”

_You have no fucking idea what it's like to lose someone like that._

”Sherlock? Sherlock, are you listening to me?”

”Yeah, corpses being someone else. That's so last year. Are you coming or not?”

”This weekend? Doncaster?”

”Yes, exactly. Bring Mary, if you like.”

”She'll bring herself, if _she_ likes, but yeah, of course I'll come.”

*****

”Come to gloat?”

Sherlock doesn't answer the question; they both know that, partly, he has. But only partly.

”Sobered up I see.”

Moran shrugs. ”Didn't have much of a choice in here.” They've taken his clothes away, put him into drab gray sweatpants and a t-shirt. If he's bothered about that, or about his hands being cuffed to the  table, he shows no signs of it. Sherlock has not often been allowed into actual interogation rooms – he's only a _consultant_ , after all – but in his experience most people are affected by the location in some way. The innocent will fret and startle, the guilty will lean back in feigned defiance. Moran does neither; he really just sits there. If anything, he looks tired. _Spent._

”I was asked to deliver a message.”

A flicker of curiosity, gone again within the second. ”Who from?”

And Sherlock hesitates, because this… is a bit strange. Moran notices, suddenly sitting up a bit straighter, that flicker of curiosity back and growing into a spark. ”Who _from_ , Holmes?”

*****

The news of Moran's breakout reaches him two days later. Sherlock would like to say he's surprised, but he remembers the sudden flash of something burning and feral in Moran's eyes, and –

–  and so he waits.

*****

(It is July and it is 2012 and Sebastian is still half-asleep as Jim bends over him, breath hot against his ear for the last time, the final whisper an echo of a decade's worth of mornings.

 _Tyger Tyger, burning bright_.)

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, so terribly unoriginal to use The Tyger in relation to Sebastian Moran, BUT. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to?


End file.
